Chapter Seven: A Claiming
The ropes were loose. A realization that caused her both pause and elation. They were at the edge of the Umber lands, bordering the lesser-known Mountain clan, the Knotts. Just fifteen leagues south of the Wall and ten leagues from Castle Black. Sansa knew the territory well—the Umbers and Knotts were Stark bannermen and liege lords who had sworn fealty to her Lord Father.
Just last year, she and her younger brother, Bran, had travelled with Ned to celebrate the Great Jon's nameday. When permitted to leave from his duties, her Uncle Benjen would regale her family with stories of the northern mountain clans and his choses life of austerity.
"It is the end of the world, truly." Benjen would commence, looking so much like Father with his severe, blue-grey eyes and long, Northern face. His hands, although strong and heavily scarred, were always gentle when they encircled her waist when he danced with her and Arya at feasts. "There is nothing but snow for days on end. A man can easily disappear and never be found."
Everyone reveled in his visits, as few and far between they were. Even Mother had oft questioned Father as to why Benjen took vows of self-imposed celibacy than take some noble lady to wife.
"But he is so handsome!" Catelyn would gush, her face matching the scarlet of her hair, the result of Ned's latest teasing. "Surely, he would have made a fine husband for some noble lady somewhere…"
Sansa felt a tear slip, and she angrily shook her head, willing the rest at bay. Crying never did anyone any good. Besides, only little girls cried and she was no longer a little girl.
Three years ago, when Sansa had turned three and ten, she visited her Aunt Lysa in the Vale when her flower came into bloom and she bled for the first time. Horrified, she tried to extricate the stain from the sheet with a knife lying nearby. Unsuccessful in her attempts, she resolved to flipping the mattress over and was nearly successful in her subterfuge when her aunt's maidservant entered her guest chambers.
Sansa, disgusted and ashamed of her sinful body, had pleaded with the young girl, Emyline, to not divulge her secret to her aunt, but all entreaties fell on deaf ears and she was summoned to her solar within the hour.
"You are flowered now, my lovely," Lysa began, offering Sansa a lemon cake from a nearby tray. It was only on special occasions her Lady Mother permitted the saccharine dessert, so Sansa ate with relish, slowly savoring the lemon's tang upon her tongue. "Do you know what that means"
Sansa knew. All too well. She knew what the crimson blemish, stark against the snow-white sheets, entailed and she shuddered. She was marked now, permanently tethered to an unknown, faceless entity that would be her Lord Husband.
"That I am now fit to bear children," she began quietly, the lemon cake suddenly feeling like gruel within her mouth. She swallowed slowly.
"Yes, my lovely," Lysa replied, smiling gently. "Truly an exciting time to be a woman. To carry a child within your body that is yours alone to love and protect." Despite the seclusion of her chambers, Lysa looked around discreetly, ensuring there were no hidden ears about. Privacy was a luxury that eluded the most privileged of ladies.
"Has your Lady Mother told you of the power that lies between a woman's legs? Tears aren't our only weapon. What we possess is sweeter and more potent than the finest Dornish wine. Let your Lord Husband—or any man—have but single taste, and he will become yours."
Sansa blanched at that, her cheeks suddenly aflame at the gauche conversation. Of course Mother never told her this! Mother was a proper lady, delicate and chaste, she would never behave so…so wantonly, like a common slattern.
After her father had informed her of her impending marriage to Ramsay, Sansa began to loathe her body; loathe the curves and twin peaks that suddenly sprung up upon her person. She could still feel Ramsay's heated gaze linger after their initial meeting. His pale eyes freely and unashamedly rove and appraise her form, as if she were some unattainable prize that only he could claim. As soon as she returned home to Winterfell, she scrubbed her body raw, desperate to extricate the revulsion and loathing that seeped into her soul and clung to her skin like mud. Never! she vowed. Never! Never! Never!
And now, here she was: liberated from one monster, yet prisoner to another. Oh, how the gods loved to play their little ironies! However, Lysa was wrong. Tears and seduction weren't a woman's only weapon. They also had their wits and were able to solve any dilemma presented to them.
Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe…
They had stopped to rest in a small, wooded area. It was dark now, the Hour of the Wolf, if Tormund, the giant wildling, was to be believed. There were also no stars in the sky. Sansa paused at that. Only a fool would try to escape within the abysmal darkness of night, but when would another opportunity present itself?
She could hide—the woods offered endless sanctuary—she could hide during the day and rest and travel at dusk, where there was just enough light. It was not a perfect plan, Sansa conceded, but it was the best she had. There were streams that provided fresh water and bushes that stored berries that provided substantial nourishment. (Arya had taught her which ones were edible and which ones brought death.) Besides, these were Umber lands, a House forever loyal to her father. The Great Jon would help her if asked, give her quarter.
The wildlings forgot to bind her legs, a small mercy she was not going to analyze or question. Perhaps, when there were multiple leagues distancing herself from them, she could think on it. But now…Now she had to escape.
They were all asleep, Sansa could make out their prone forms around the dying fire. After a meagre dinner of rabbit (the grey-eyed wildling had offered her part of his, but Sansa refused, only glaring angrily at him and offering her backside), they talked quietly amongst themselves before sleep claimed them. Throughout the meal, Sansa could feel the grey-eyed wildling's gaze on her. Although she had obstinately refused to look at him, once, when adjusting herself at the foot of the tree, her eyes met his and a battle of wills quickly ensued.
He looked away first, clearly annoyed, and Sansa reveled in the small victory. It was childish, she supposed, but at the moment, she did not care. Soon, she would be away from here and would never have to look at him again, no matter how unsettling and captivating his gaze may be. Focus, now. She had to focus.
Closing her eyes, Sansa took a deep breath and channeled her thoughts. She could not afford to error—not now—not when escape was nigh. After a few more twists and deep tugs, the ropes gave way, and Sansa's heart lurched.
Quickly looking up, she glanced around at her surroundings. They were all asleep, still. Tormund, sprawled on his back, snoring loudly into the night sky, the other two laying on their sides, facing the dying fire. The grey-eyed wildling was propped against a large boulder, opposite Tormund. All unsuspecting. All unassuming.
Sansa got to her feet then, her heart throbbing within the vicinity of her ears. She felt heavy, wooden, but willed herself to move. Go! Go now, you stupid girl! Go before you have nothing left!
She was surprised that stealth came so easily to her; Arya had always complained during games, that she made too much noise when hiding, easily giving away her position. One step…Then two…Soon, she found herself within a small cluster of woods.
A breath of relief escaped her then, faint and shallow. This was good. She only needed to keep moving and she would be just fine. She just. Needed to. Keep moving.
Sansa had barely turned around when she suddenly found herself on the forest floor, all breath leaving her. No. No. No…
The grey-eyed wildling was stood over her, his face all but obscured from the consuming darkness, his winter-grey eyes glittering with barely concealed rage. "Where are you going, She-Wolf?" His voice was soft, quiet, and yet nonetheless deadly. It spread like a winter gale through her body, settling in her core, and she trembled.
"You think me so stupid that I would not know how to secure your binds? I knew you were trying to escape. I watched you, waiting. There is no place you can hide that I will not find you."
Sansa felt angry then, livid. Before she was aware of herself, aware of her actions and the weight of the consequence it would bring, she launched herself at him, a barrage of slaps, punches, and curses. A growling and angry she-wolf at last…
She did not care that he was stronger, that her two hands fit into his one. She did not care that he could very easily kill her and leave her corpse for the crows to feast. She just wanted to hurt him! To humiliate him! To maim him! To make him feel some small measurement akin to the loss and helplessness she felt currently.
He deftly caught her punches, pivoting her around and securing her arms behind her back. His face was in her hair again, and suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by him—his scent, his presence, his essence, his strength. Gods, why was he affecting her so? Why was she so conscious of him?
Angry, defeated and so damned tired, Sansa could only cry. And cry, she did. Painful, gut-wrenching sobs. She cried for her mother, for her father, for Robb, for Arya, for Bran, and for baby Rickon, as well.
She cried for her lost dreams, her shattered hopes, and for her unspoken prayers. She mourned for it all. Finally, after a moment, her tears abated. She was a wolf once more.
The wildling continued to hold her, though not as tightly as before. His lips remained in her hair, murmuring quiet words of comfort and mollification. He walked her back to the campsite, steering her back to the foot of the tree. And Sansa acquiesced, too tired—to exhausted—to fight back.
After securing the binds to her wrists (and feet), the grey-eyed wildling continued to linger over her, his storm colored eyes silently perusing her. Gone was the anger and disgust, and in its place was something else entirely. Something foreign and unrecognizable.
Gods, he pities me now.
"I had a home!" Sansa bit out, angry and ashamed she had shown her enemy weakness. She was no Stark. Wolves never cried. "I had a family that loved me. I did not ask for you to take me away. I never asked for any of this!"
They grey-eyed wildling blinked in surprise and then quickly stood up, giving Sansa his back. He stopped suddenly, yet refused to face her, only looking at the night sky that continued to engulf and surround them.
"You did ask, Sansa. I heard you ask. I heard your prayers." A moment passed. And then…
"I know because I prayed for you, too."